I'm in a writing class at the Hugo House right now- this is my first short story assignment. Keep in mind: it's very much a first draft.
My classmates don’t seem like the brightest bunch, but eager – yes, eager. Hands fly into the air with ideas, comments, suggestions, and guesses. I wish they’d all just shut up. With all their talking, how’s a person supposed to learn anything?
We’re testing each others’ scents today. Our first two weeks of class culminate into this: a line-up of bottles – some blue, some green, some round, some long – and fifteen women of similar variety in shape walking up and down the aisle, squeezing past each other to sniff the next scent and the next and the next…
…how’s a person supposed to keep it all straight? My nose is filled with lime zest and burgundy one minute then rose petal and chamomile the next. My nostrils long for fresh air, a cigarette break even. I congratulate myself for concentrating my efforts on simplicity – my scent aims to be both warm and calming, but not fancy. No, I’ll leave fancy to the Veronicas, Monicas, and Anastasias of the world.
“Waverly!” the instructor chirps. “Yours is next!”
I explain the concoction, a honey and mimosa fragrance. As I announce it, I long for Sunday brunch. Biscuits. Bacon. Bottomless carafes. The stares of my classmates bring me back.
“Mimosa?” the Monica asks, held tilting and eyes rolling ceiling-ward. “What’s that, like Mammography?”
I remember: she’s Mormon. There’s no use explaining.
I cringe as our instructor, Ms. Rose (yes, that’s her real name) leans in to take the first whiff. She will hate it. I just know she will. I watch her nostrils flare open, her eyes close, her lips purse, and then…
…and then her eyes fly open wide and her feet carry her back two or three inches, involuntarily. My heart sinks. But she regains composure easily. Brushing her hands down her apron, she invites the class to take their turn. I look away.
* * *
“Why couldn’t it be easy like this?” I whine to my husband the following weekend. We’re out with the in-laws tasting wine not far from home. In my mind’s eye, I see my classmates visiting gardens and markets, sniffing and smelling aromas far more simple than these, and yet they perplex me.
“I don’t understand why you put yourself through all this, Waverly.” My husband wishes I took a cheese-making class, a cooking class, or better yet, a beer-making class. He raises his eyebrows at me and I know what he’s thinking: fragrances?
It’s been bothering me for a while, though. Two Christmases ago, the fir tree wrapped in tinsel and gadgets just about sent my husband outdoors for the season with headaches from its strong scent. And yet I smelled nothing. Well, not quite nothing, but not much, and truth be told, I might have imagined even that much. We threw out the tree on Boxing Day.
Two months later, the Valentine’s roses seemed almost fake in their scentlessness. I wrote them off as just another example of how NAFTA cheapens the world. But then my Mother-in-Law dropped by for dinner a few days later and from the moment she walked through the door, she began commenting on those roses. “Where did you find such things? So fragrant so early in the season?” And with a pinch to his cheek, “My son must really love you!”
But I smelled nothing.
The March edition of Science & Health landed in our mailbox like a jury verdict. The headline? “How Smoking Destroys the Senses.” I rolled my eyes, but something at the base of my skull caught me. I threw open the magazine, thirsty eyes scanning for what I already knew I would find.
“Dulled sense of smell.”
“Loss of distinction between fragrances.”
“Sometimes permanent.”
I hovered there. Sometimes. Not always. But sometimes.
I quit smoking that summer. Seventeen years of cigarettes before fear drove me to flush them all. Sure enough, I discovered how quitting really was hell. Thankfully, our wine cabinet had reached out to sustain me.
I stare down at the wine swirling in my glass, a generous two-ounce pour and the seventh of the day. I smell mineral notes, kerosene, and a hint of anise. Monica wouldn’t stand a chance here, her senses dulled by bright citrus and cheesy potatoes. Toasting my husband, I drink it down.
* * *
My nose comes back slowly. Every week, I catch onto more and more of the scents Ms. Rose brings to class – first heavy patchouli and musky roses, then the more subtle smells like violets and cilantro. I create several more fragrances of my own – mojito and currant, juniper and lime, and even hops and barley – but each new attempt fails to garner more than polite smiles from my classmates. And so for our final project, I returned to where I began: honey and mimosa. I want to perfect it.
My husband takes his third whiff before I bolt out to the carport. “No, I really think it’s good this time, Waverly,” he insists. I think so too, but I don’t tell him so. I screw the cap on tight then fly out the door.
Class passes like a gust of wind. My head hurts from the bright scents Monica presents. Veronica’s make me crave nachos, but it takes me ten minutes before I realize she might have used Jose Cuervo to make it. Then, it’s my turn.
Ms. Rose steps up to my bottle, a vintage little vessel I found at the second-hand store over the weekend. “Waverly, I hear you’re returning to an old standard?”
“Yes’m,” I nod, swallowing as much of my pride as I can.
Time slows, my heart races as I watch Ms. Rose remove the cap and wave her hand toward her nose. A deep inhale, a lift of the eyebrows, and then…
…Ms. Rose breaks into a coughing fit.
My mouth falls open. Liquid sloshes from the bottle before Ms. Rose can return it to the counter. “I’m so sorry,” she says between coughs. “It’s not the smell, I just – I just –“ and she can’t finish. She excuses herself into the hallway, rushing to the washroom no doubt. All the way out, she insists it’s not the scent, but judging by the looks on my classmates’ faces, I know better.
I find myself at the Tex-Mex bar after class.
* * *
It has been years now since I took that class. I smell the world as if it’s made of wine – the pink blossoms of spring, the dusty settling of earth in a rainstorm, the softness of a newborn’s skin. I don’t even miss the cigarettes anymore.
My husband and I finish our brunch. Shaking the crumbs from my lap, I inhale the salty air and melt into the view. Today is a sunny, cool day on British Columbia’s west coast. I reach for my husband’s arm as we wander the pier in search of a gift for his mother. That’s how I end up in this particular perfumerie.
The smells take me right back to that class – some too bright to please, and some to heavy to delight. I strike up a conversation with the owner, a wrinkled waif of a woman.
“My my my, you really seem to know a lot about fragrances,” she says.
I blush. “Ms. Rose wouldn’t agree.” I sigh and turn to the next bottle when my husband steps forward and begins to boast about my scent. “Original,” he calls it. “Like a calm mid-spring morning, without all the allergies.”
“A mornin’ like this one?” the owner jokes. Her finger flies skyward. “Wait! We have somethin’ not too different from what you’re describin’. Hold yourselves here a moment.”
Moving without the slightest hint of ease, she disappears in the back. I raise my eyebrows at my husband, and to my surprise, I see him leaning far over the counter, eager. I join him.
“Here it is! Found it!” the owner squeals, popping out from the storeroom with a bottle high overhead. “I been hidin’ this one back there for a while now. Can’t seem to keep ‘em in stock, but I like ‘em too much to let ‘em all go. Makes for a great bath oil, I tell ya.”
She uncaps the lid and slides the bottle over to my husband. Nostrils flared, he leans in. “Holy shit!” he says, waving me over.
I rub my nose to clear it of the lilac I just whiffed. My husband grins like it’s Christmas and hands over the bottle. I nod as I raise it to my face. And then…
…biscuits! Bacon! And bottomless carafes. “It’s my scent! Baby, it’s my scent!”
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